


Prompt: AU

by lurkinglurkerwholurks



Series: BatFam Week 2018 [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Batfam Week 2018, Gen, I have to tag accurately so I kind of ruined the surprise there sorry, Mild Blood, Pre-Robin Jason Todd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 01:30:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15523095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkinglurkerwholurks/pseuds/lurkinglurkerwholurks
Summary: BatFam Week 2018, Day Four. (I skipped Day Three.) Prompt: AUWhat if a tire-stealing Jason Todd initially refused to stay with Bruce because he had different priorities?





	Prompt: AU

The first time Bruce saw the little thief, the brat was three tires into the Batmobile and working on the fourth. For once, Bruce found himself stunned still and speechless. He knew the crime rate in Gotham was still miserably high, but he had never expected the Batmobile to get jacked. It was only when the boy was down to last nut on the final tire that Bruce stepped forward and clamped a hand down on the thief’s shoulder.

The yelp the boy gave was satisfying. The tire iron that he swung into Bruce’s stomach was not. Still, he was a scrawny runt and Bruce was able to catch him again down the block.

Passing the boy—Jason, he said his name was—from Batman to Bruce Wayne had been an impulse decision. As he ushered the boy into the Manor foyer, Bruce felt a twinge of whatever the sheltering version of buyer’s remorse was. What did he know about raising a street kid? Dick had been a traumatized orphan, sure, but he’d needed Bruce, and they’d bonded almost immediately.

This kid... he had an edge. Jason was twitchy, startling at any unexpected move from Bruce. He kept his ratty backpack clutched to his chest like he was afraid Bruce was going to steal it, and he made sure to stay an arm and a half’s length away at all times.

Bruce understood, he did. The streets were no place for anyone to live, but especially not a child, and especially not Gotham’s streets. He could only imagine the life Jason had had. That didn’t make him feel any more comfortable with Jason in his home, however, but the group homes of Gotham were almost as bad as its streets. Until Bruce could guarantee Jason’s well-being at a state-operated facility, the boy would have to stay with him.

It actually made him feel a little better that Jason didn’t seem any more sold on the idea than Bruce. After openly gawking the entire way up the stairs and into the guest room, Jason now stood in the middle of the floor, backpack still held against his chest like a shield.

“I don’t know what the Bat has on you, buddy, but you don’t have to do this.”

Bruce’s lips twitched. “It’s no trouble,” he assured the boy, careful to keep his tone even and light. He’d started to put his hands in his pockets, but the way Jason’s eyes darted made him reconsider hiding his hands.

Before Jason could protest again, Bruce nodded toward the door on the other side of the room. “There’s a bathroom through there. Alfred’s put some clean clothes on the counter. Why don’t you clean up and then meet me downstairs for dinner?”

“But really, I could just go...” Jason began.

Bruce smiled, a close-lipped but genuine smile that was as welcoming as he knew how to be. “We’re happy to have you here. It’s a big house with too many rooms, and it’ll do Alfred good to have someone new to cook for. Growing boy like you, you must be able to tuck in a good meal.”

He turned toward the door and spoke as he stepped out into the hall, “Turn right out of the door, take the first staircase you see, and then turn left through the swinging door. Dining room’s right there, can’t miss it. See you in fifteen, Jason.”

Jason had come down with wet hair and at least two dirt layers lighter. The clothes were oversized—Dick had been a lithe boy, but Jason was even stringier—and Jason kept tugging on the shoulders. But at least he was warm, mostly dry, and clean.

In retrospect, the dining room was a mistake. It was too big, too imposing. Dinner was a quiet affair, silver tines on porcelain plates. Bruce remembered what it was like to talk with a child, Dick chattering away like a skylark as he swung his feet back and forth. He had forgotten that Dick had taken most of the burden of conversation on himself in those days. Jason felt no such compunction. Questions were met with one-word answers or silence. The room was kept in view and Bruce was studied out of the periphery of wary blue eyes.

When Bruce checked on Jason in the night and found the window open and the guest room empty, he was only a little surprised. He was more surprised by the _thanks_ carefully printed on the paper left in the center of the bed atop a neatly folded pile of clothes. He was most surprised by the wistfulness wending through his chest as he stared at the open window. He wished the boy had stayed long enough to get some true help.

The second time Bruce saw the little thief, he was merely a peripheral flash of dark hair and shouts from an outraged shopkeep. Bruce sighed deep within the cowl and followed.

“Jason.”

He had to admit, the yelp was just as satisfying the second time, more so because it wasn’t followed by a tire iron. Bruce let Jason’s breathless curses peter out before tilting his head slightly.

“What did you steal?”

Jason couldn’t deny it. His hooded sweatshirt was bulging so badly that he had to wrap both arms around his front to keep the contents from spilling out. But _couldn’t_ didn’t necessarily mean _wouldn’t_.

“Nothin’,” came the immediate answer, followed by a grimace. “Just... food, y’know?”

“Food,” Bruce repeated, voice flat and lacking any inflection to be used as a foothold for interpretation. Jason, of course, chose to interpret it with extreme doubt.

“Yeah, food,” the boy snapped. He threw his hands up into the air, letting the multitude of individually packaged foods fall crinkling to the asphalt.

“That’s not food. That’s packing peanuts and caulk disguised as food.” Sometimes the line between Bruce and Batman was thinner than even Bruce himself realized.

“I’m _so_ sorry, I didn’t have time to knock off a locally sourced, organic-only food boutique instead of the corner bodega, but I’m hungry and don’t have a refrigerator, Batman,” Jason sneered.

Okay, that was fair.

“Was Wayne Manor that bad?” Bruce asked.

“What?”

“Was Bruce Wayne not willing to feed you there? Is that why you left?”

Bruce’s gaze sharpened at Jason’s uncomfortable shrug. “I couldn’t stay. Wasn’t personal.”

“Why?”

“I—” Jason’s gaze flickered beyond Bruce for just a moment, seeking an explanation that hadn’t come. “Just reasons, okay? Besides, I’m not a favor.”

“If you won’t stay with him, then I have to take you to the group home.”

Jason had stooped to gather his fallen plastic-wrapped treats, and his head snapped up at Bruce’s declaration.

“What?! No!”

“Yes. Jason, you can’t live on th—” And that was when the absent tire iron came whistling through the dark and struck Bruce in the back of the knees.

By the time Bruce staggered to his feet again, Jason and his unseen accomplice were gone, along with their ill-gotten gains.

The third time Bruce saw the little thief... well, he didn’t see him at first. He heard the bell, clanging loud and frantic at the back door of Leslie’s clinic. It was after hours, long after the clinic had closed, which was why Bruce had felt safe showing up with his cowl and a shallow stab wound in his thigh. No one else was supposed to be here, but, as the common wisdom went, Crime Alley never slept.

“Stay out of sight,” Leslie ordered, thrusting Bruce’s cowl into his hands. “Don’t run off my patients.”

It was faster not to argue. If Bruce saw a reason to step in, he would, regardless of any conversation he did or did not have with Leslie beforehand. Limping slightly, he stepped into the tiny bathroom adjacent and waited, one eye trained on the crack in the door.

Creepy? Maybe a little. Blatant HIPAA violation? Absolutely. But either the bell-ringer was simply a neighbor in need of help, in which case they would never know he was here, or they were something worse, in which case they would have bigger problems than a peeping Bat.

Bruce missed whatever exchange happened at the door. What he saw first was Leslie, thin white coat flapping in urgency and lips pressed flat as she hurried back into the exam room.

“Bring him over here.” Leslie pointed to the table, then blew past it to her counter of supplies.

What Bruce saw next was a head of short, spiky black hair, its face turned away from him. The head—he frowned, squinted, tried to make out the details—was child height and attached to a body in nondescript, dark clothes. The small body turned, unlooped the arm dangling around its neck, and grunted as it half-guided, half-heaved another body onto the table.

Then the short-haired helper stepped back, and Bruce saw Jason. The boy was nearly unrecognizable at first. He’d been beaten, with fists or something else, Bruce couldn’t tell from the bathroom. A thin line of blood trickled from Jason’s nose. Objectively, Bruce had seen worse, but not on a child.

It felt like a track skipping in Bruce’s head. One second he was lurking in a dark bathroom; the next, he was in a fluorescent-lit exam room, looming over Jason’s prone body.

“What happened?” he demanded, vigilante growl harsh and vicious.

“Batman!” Leslie snapped, stepping forward even as Jason jerked in surprise.

Bruce took another step forward, then stopped as his armor tapped against the knife leveled at his abdomen. He looked down. The other child stood between him and Jason, a serrated blade the length of their hand lifted to block his path. Their eyes locked on Bruce’s, dark and determined.

The left half of their face was speckled with a fine mist of blood, the color counterbalancing the angry bruise on the opposite cheek bone.

"If you’re going to take up space in my clinic, make yourself useful.” Leslie’s tone brooked no argument. “Two ice packs and a warm, wet washcloth. Go.”

Bruce waited a moment, making it clear that Batman was not to be bossed, then took a step back. The child and the knife stayed. Bruce turned and stalked out to the main area in search of a laundry room and an ice machine.

When he returned, the scene had improved somewhat. Jason reclined on the raised exam table, Leslie bent over him. She had cleaned him up somewhat, the nearby trashcan filled with discarded antiseptic wipes. He grimaced as Leslie stitched the cut running through his left eyebrow, then relaxed as the other child tapped his shoulder in warning. The other one, somehow even smaller and scrawnier than Jason, had managed to curl theirself up at the head of the exam table, their back against the wall and body contorted slightly so their legs and feet lined the crack between the table and the wall. Dark hair a few inches long prickled across their scalp, highlighting their delicate bone structure.

The knife was nowhere to be seen, but the glare Bruce received when he stepped back into the room was more than sharp enough.

“We have just had a talk about weapons in my clinic,” Leslie told Bruce without turning. “And you and I will have a talk later about _staying put_.”

Bruce lifted the ice packs so the other child could see, then stepped forward. They shifted, curling tighter like a snake preparing to strike. He stopped.

“Doctor, please inform your guest that I have nothing nefarious planned with these ice packs.”

Leslie’s gaze flicked up. “Settle.”

The child looked to her and seemed to accept whatever they saw in Leslie’s face. They relaxed against the wall almost imperceptibly.

Bruce took a step at a time until he was near enough for Leslie to take the supplies in his hands. One ice pack she passed to Jason, who pressed it gratefully to his nose. The other pack and washcloth she passed to Jason’s shadow.

“Clean yourself up,” Leslie said.

The child didn’t move. Their eyes were trained on Bruce again. Jason sighed slightly and took the washcloth. He grimaced as he lifted his hand and began dabbing at the blood on his friend’s face. The little shadow startled at the first touch of damp cloth, then looked down at Jason questioningly.

“You’re a mess,” Jason said, dabbing at the speckled skin once more for good measure, then pressed the cloth back into the unyielding hand. The other child set about their own clean up, then held the ice pack to their bruised cheekbone.

Bruce eased himself down into a nearby chair, careful not to wince at the twinge in his leg, then asked again, “What happened?”

“From what little I’ve been able to gather, this one—” Leslie gently rapped her fingertip against Jason’s forehead “—was jumped by some hoodlums who didn’t like the look of his face.”

She turned slightly to quirk an eyebrow at Bruce. “More likely it was his mouth that set them off. His face was alright until tonight.”

Leslie turned back to Jason and ordered him to lift his shirt. Bruce wasn’t surprised by the mottled bruising spread across the boy’s ribs, but he certainly wasn’t pleased either.

“And that one,” Leslie continued, pointing at the silent one, “dove in to the scrum and pulled him out.”

Bruce had a dozen questions he needed answers to. He waited until they were all finished bubbling in the back of his throat, leaving the one he knew he needed to ask first.

“Are you okay?” he asked Jason.

Surprise flickered over Jason's battered face, but he answered with a small half-shrug.

Bruce looked to the other child. “Are you?”

They paused, lowered the washcloth slightly, and looked to Jason. Jason made a gesture with his free hand. Bruce watched in interest as the other child replied with a set of gestures of their own.

“She’s okay,” Jason announced, unable to hide his own relief. “Doc, you might wanna look at her hand, though.”

Bruce had seen the battered knuckles as well.

At the questioning head tilt, Jason sighed and jerked his thumb back at his shadow. “This is Cass. My sister.”

Sister? Bruce studied the girl’s—he could see that, now that he had a pronoun confirmed—features, marking the indicators of clear East Asian descent and lack of shared features with Jason. Jason noticed and lifted his chin challengingly. Bruce nodded. Blood relative or not, Cass had taken on multiple thugs much larger and much more experienced than she was to rescue Jason. That was something only family would do.

A revelation gently thumped Bruce between the eyes.

“Is this why you wouldn’t stay at the Manor?”

Leslie turned around, surprised, but Bruce ignored her in favor of watching Jason’s face. Sheepishness flitted across the boy’s features, along with shame that was quickly run off by stubborn will.

“I wasn’t going to leave her behind.” Jason reached back for Cass, who took his hand. 

Bruce eyed both children. “Did you think he’d run out of room?”

“What?”

“Bruce Wayne. Did you think he would run out of room in his mansion if he tried to squeeze in your sister?”

Leslie had finished taping Jason’s ribs and tending to Cass’s hand. She slipped out of the room, leaving Bruce, Jason, and Cass to stare at each other.

“Can she hear me?” Bruce asked, when Jason didn’t answer.

Jason nodded. “She’s not deaf. She just doesn’t talk.”

“But she can understand me if I talk to her?” Bruce asked.

Another shrug, which earned Jason a rap on his shoulder from Cass when the movement aggravated his ribs. “Sometimes.”

“And anything she can't, you can sign to her,” Bruce guessed. Another nod confirmed it.

Bruce shifted in his chair, very aware of how menacing the full Bat ensemble could be, even in a quiet, well-lit room. Resting his elbows on his knees, he looked Cass in the eye.

“Would you like a safe place to stay while you both heal? You don’t have to promise to stay forever, but for now, I think it would be a good idea.”

It wasn’t that easy. The kids had to discuss the offer between themselves, despite having to know that it was either the Manor or a group home, and Cass still looked ready to pull a blade on Bruce at the slightest provocation. Apparently, she held a grudge against Batman trying to take Jason away twice already. It was unclear how she felt about Bruce Wayne.

In the end, though, it was decided that both kids would stay at Wayne Manor while their injuries healed. After that... well, Bruce hoped his powers of persuasion were up to the task, because he didn’t like the idea of sending them away, but over his dead body would they go back out on the street.

And that was how, an hour later, Bruce stood in the foyer of Wayne Manor and awaited the arrival of two street children into his home.

“Are you sure this is a wise idea, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked as they watched Leslie’s headlights pull up the long driveway.

“No. But I’m sure it’ll be fine, Alfred. What could happen?”


End file.
